


The Holiday Ten

by sunryder



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Bones (TV), Game of Thrones (TV), Kingsman (Movies), NCIS, Shameless (US), Sherlock (TV), Stargate Atlantis, Teen Wolf (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Alternate Universe - Stargate Atlantis Fusion, Joanna Snow - Freeform, Las Vegas Wedding, Like, M/M, Multi, four of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder
Summary: Once again, twelve one-shots of varying lengths and fandoms all found in my new year cleaning.1 - GoT (Jon is the happy son of Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Elia)2 - NCIS & Bones (the lead members of a community always intersect)3 - Shameless & SGA (Sheppard catches Mickey burgaling)4 - Teenwolf & Stargate (Derek works for the government)5 - The Hobbit and SGA (yup, a third one)6 - SGA and Shameless (Mickey is John's aide)7 - Sherlock/Kingsman (Mycroft gets omega Greg pregnant)8 - Teen Wolf (Vegas wedding)9 - GoT (Joanna Snow)10 - NCIS & TNG (Gibbs as Starfleet Captain)





	1. Jon Targaryen's happy family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chunk of what will be the massive follow-up story to Wolf Blood. I've changed the beginning so much this is all getting deleted, but I thought you might like it ;)

“You know, it would make our trip to the North much easier if you weren’t going there straight from your uncle’s bed.”

Jon grimaced and paused his repacking. “Please don’t call Oberyn my uncle. When I hear ‘uncle’ I think of Ned, and I’d rather not accidentally have any of the thoughts that I have about Oberyn about him.”

“Your father would be disappointed. He still hopes that someday he’ll manage to convince Ned to be a little less _Northern_.”

Jon didn’t have to feign his gag. It was one of the great jests of Kings Landing that Rhaegar the Kingslayer had – what would be called in a lesser man – a crush on his Northern brother-in-law. The irony of Rhaegar’s affections was that either of his Southern brothers-in-law would have happily bedded him if he’d ever asked. (Well, as happily as Doran Martell ever did anything.)

Jon was in no small part grateful that Rhaegar had both set his crush upon, and had been disappointed in that crush on Eddard Stark. Mainly because that meant Jon could join Oberyn and Ellaria in their bed every time he passed through Dorne without the inborn Northern guilt that came from family members having slept with the same people. Though John could admit to himself that he appreciated that he did not have to rewrite everything he knew about his Uncle Ned’s faithfulness to Lady Catelyn.

Lyanna settled herself beside the pile of clothes on Jon’s bed, not sorting or refolding on his behalf. Her son travelled often enough that she didn’t feel the need to police his packing, despite the truth that there were far more extravagant clothes in his closet that she would have included. As it was, she let him keep his passive-aggressive clothing, certain that every trace of fabric was meant to be a silent dare to the Northmen to call him bastard under their breath.

Instead of fussing, she waited. Jon had come straight to his room after his return from Dorne. And not, despite what his protestations would be if she asked, because he was trying to make up for the lateness of his return.

Oberyn and Elliaria had probably dragged Jon back to bed for their version of a good morning kiss, then Trystane and Arianne had likely caught him sneaking off to his dragon to come home without saying goodbye. They would’ve insisted upon breakfast and begged to hear all about the visit he had just concluded to the Dothraki and Danerys. Doran would have listened with that silent half smile he shared with his sister, and then Jon, tender heart that he was, would have sat down and supped with the Dornishman he had no objections to calling uncle.

All of which were worthy excuses for being late. And truthfully, every moment Jon could put between their arrival in Winterfell and the bed of Oberyn Martell and his mistress would make his and Lyanna’s time in the North a bit more comfortable. But none of those reasons were what had her son avoiding all three of his parents to silently trade in his bright southern clothes for the stoic blacks that he wore in the North, ignoring his mother as he twisted his clothes into the little knots that Ser Barristan had taught him soliders used for campaigns.

Lyanna slipped a tunic from the pile – obviously a present from Danerys, since she so enjoyed the picture they made with her done up in silver like a star and Jon in the blue-black of the midnight sky. Under normal circumstances Lyanna would have tried to knot it to make Jon smile at how a woman who was so graceful with a sword could so bungle laundry. But this afternoon, she held it out to him with a steady hand and said, “You should wear this to the feast that I’m sure we’ll have tomorrow.”

Lyanna expected the standard complaint that Lady Catelyn wouldn’t like it.

(She always hated it when Jon or Lyanna walked through the halls of Winterfell looking like what they were instead of what she thought of them. For Jon’s childhood visits, Lyanna had been spiteful enough to pack their courtliest garments. An eight-year-old Jon had inadvertently put a stop to that with his complaints. “But I can’t play in them, Mama.”

“I want everyone there to know you’re a prince.”

“But Mama, I _am_ a prince.”)

As a teenager Jon had understood that Lady Catelyn didn’t like it when outsiders outshone her beloved children in their own house, and Jon, with all the tact that came from Rhaegar, did his best to comply.

But instead of grumbling out something about Lady Catelyn in the same speeches mother and son always went through when they were summoning up the will to go to Winterfell, Jon ran the fine silken fabric through his fingers and asked, “You love Elia too, don’t you.”

Lyanna startled in surprise. “You know I do.” As a child, Jon had come to her only once to ask why he had three parents and everyone else he knew had two. Lyanna gathered her tiny boy into her arms and told him that Jon had three because they were all in love. If she had married anyone else it would have broken her heart. And if she had married just one of them, she would have been incomplete all the rest of her days.

Jon had kicked his little feet against her calf and asked, “Do I have to have two?”

“No darling. You can have just one if you’d like.”

“And if I want four?”

“Then darling boy, you will have four.”

(When he asked his other parents, Elia had explained that her spouses together made her brave. Rhaegar had swept his son up onto his hip and declared that his wives made him good.)

“Jon, what happened?”

“Did you always know, even at Harrenhal?”

“No. At Harrenhall I was confused. The king and his wife were offering me all their smiles, though there were dozens of lords and ladies who would have cut off their fingers to be the object of their attention. I knew I wanted to keep talking to them, and every time some other lady elbowed me out of the way to reclaim their focus it made me jealous. But I didn’t understand it.”

“Being in love?”

“Being in love with a married man and a woman. Imagine explaining that feeling to your Uncle Ned times ten, and that was my father. He loved me dearly, but he couldn’t even understand why I didn’t want to marry Robert Baratheon, To love a woman would have been in defiance of nature, and to choose to be a mistress rather than a pure wife would have made me a whore. I knew what I wanted at Harrenhal, but I didn’t understand it.”

“When did you know?”

“Elia wrote to me to apologize for what Rhaegar had done, giving me the crown of winter roses. She said that Rhaegar didn’t think about how ill my family might take the gesture. Then she said that I would realize on my own soon enough that Targaryeans have a habit deciding upon the right and then barreling on to see it done, damn the consequences. Then she apologized for her part in whatever troubles I might be having. They were both simply so taken with me that they didn’t behave as they ought, and they were both a bit ashamed of themselves for not protecting me better, for not protecting me as lovers ought.”

Jon dropped the perfectly knotted shirt into his bag and dropped down beside his mother, his gaze on fingers that were trying to imitate the fabric. “I realized this morning that I was half a breath away from loving Oberyn. And I could breathe to my last and never love Ellaria.”

“Oberyn will never leave her.” It was brutal, but had to be said before she could try and guide him in any way.

“And I would never ask him to. He loves her. They are happy with their life as it is, finding new partners to enjoy their time with, but always staying true in their hearts to one another.”

“And there is no room in their hearts for you?”

“Rather, there is no room in _my_ heart for them both. I won’t ever love her, not enough to make her my wife. Not enough to trust her with my children.”

Lyanna ran steady hands through her son’s tangled mess of hair. Her first instinct was to climb atop her dragon and fly to Dorne to give Oberyn a piece of her mind. How could anyone choose someone who wasn’t her son? Jon patted her knee, silently heading off her temper before she could get going. “I’m sorry, darling. I’d always hoped that love would be as easy for you as it was me.”

“Mum, your love started a civil war.”

“And what’s your point?”

“Wishing that on me seems more like a curse than a blessing.”

Lyanna reached out to pinch the cord at the base of Jon’s neck, and with years of long practice Jon ducked out of the way with a laugh. “I admit, anything that doesn’t end with being Robert Baratheon’s bed would have to be a blessing, but still.”

“In his defense he was much handsomer in his youth.”

“But no one could ever compete with father.” Jon replied in the steady tone that meant he had heard that opinion a thousand times before.

“No, they couldn’t.”

“And no one in the whole of Westeros could match Elia Martell for her beauty.”

“No. Even still.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“I know you will, love. I just wish…”

“That I was all right, right now.”

“Yes.”

Jon plastered on a smile that she knew wasn’t true. “I’ll be all right in no time. Few things make me feel better about my own life than the freezing embrace of Winterfell.” Jon took her hand and dragged her from the bed, leaving his bag for his valet to finish packing, grief making him a proper prince.

Elia and Rhaegar are waiting in the sitting room shared in their family suite, right where he knew they’d be. They held hands while Rhaegar watched the door and Elia whispered words in his ear so he might give their son a moment alone with his birth mother. The second Jon stepped through the doorway, Rhaegar leapt to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, father.”

“You came straight to your room rather than to see any of us. You only do that when you’re upset about something and you want to brood for a while where none of us can see you.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Yes you do.”

“He learned it from you.” Elia pointed out.

“Yes, that’s how I know he was brooding. Do you not want to go to Winterfell? You don’t have to. And don’t concern yourself with the offense, we can tell your uncle that you’ve taken ill from something you caught when you were visiting Dany. The Northmen will be too busy feeling happily superior about strange Southern illnesses to worry about missing the visit.”

“Father, I’m not concerned about Winterfell.”

Rhaegar caught him by the shoulders and held Jon steady to look him in the eye. “But you _are_ concerned about something.”

“No, father, I’m not.” Rhaegar opened his mouth to protest yet again. Strangely enough it was Aegon who took the most after Lyanna, while Jon had gotten his father’s soul, despite his mother’s coloring. When Lyanna was angry you heard her shouts and Elia’s temper turned to pinch-lipped glowers. Rhaegar however, he hid himself away from them all until the upset had drifted away on the warm breeze. “You’re right that I was, but no longer.”

Rhaegar cupped his son’s face between his hands. “You promise me that you’re well, darling boy. I don’t want you flying away to the North and realizing once you get there that you’d rather have stayed home a bit longer to deal with your troubles.”

“I promise you, father. I’m well.”

“Are you—”

“Oh leave him, Rhaegar. Take my word that he’s fine if you won’t take his.” Rhaegar shared with his son a gaze to the heavens asking for strength from Lyanna’s bluntness, but he let Jon be. The two wives of Rhaegar Targaryean sat behind them on the couch, Elia unmoved from where Rhaegar had left her to fuss, and Lyanna in his place. Elia rested her head on her wife’s shoulder, watching father and son with the soft, content smile that was her default expression.

Jon had been away from home for months, checking in on both Viserys and Danerys in the south, and admittedly spending far more time with Dany than with his eldest cousin. He would be away again in a matter of minutes, but every time he came home from one of his trips abroad he was struck again by the perfectly paired beauty of his mothers. Every trace of Elia Martell was soft and refined, her clothes a perfectly blending of Dornish style and King’s Landing cloth. Today her thick black tresses were bound up with bright blue fabric into a braided crown. But as always, she looked at Jon with the same soft smile that she gave to the children of her own body.

Jon knew full well that there were whole swaths of Westeros that were rightly terrified of Rhaegar’s Viper Queen, having been on the rough side of her fury in the aftermath of Robert’s Rebellion. Not nearly as many people were scared of Elia as they should have been since there plenty of fools in the world who assumed that her pretty face and soft voice meant she wasn’t lurking in the grass. Sitting there beside her wife, entwining her fingers with her husband and dragging him down to join them both on the couch it was easy for Jon to understand all those who mistook Elia for anything other than a Martell.

No one ever made such a mistake about Lyanna. And no matter how long he lived, Jon would always wonder how it was that a man like him had been born of the Wolf Queen. Uncle Ned had told him once about how Lyanna had been a wild thing as a child, sword in hand, dirty clothes, and hair a tangled mess that often the nurse cut rather than tried to work a comb through. Now she was a woman grown and bore all the signs of Elia’s dignified touch in her appearance. Left to its own devices her hair would get just as mangled as Jon’s own curls, but now it was bound back in side braids and Jon was certain that his other-mother had spent the morning getting it order for Lyanna. She was dressed in the gear of a dragon rider, thick trousers and leather armor. There was nothing distinguishing her from any regular rider, other than her short sword and shield – still bearing the sigil of House Stark – that sat in the corner waiting beside her pack.

For all she was dressed like an elite member of the Targaryean guard, you only had to see her face to know that you were looking at one of the most beautiful women in Westeros. Jon could not count the number of times that he’d been told in disappointed tones how much he looked like his father. He had his mother’s coloring, but all her deadly grace and the wild fierceness in her eyes, that was something she alone possessed.

There were his mothers, perfect in their opposition, two sides of the same coin that gave balance to the Great Dragon, their influence rescuing the Targaryean dynasty from the horror that Aerys the Mas had driven them to. And how Jon hated that he had to drag them apart yet again.

But before Jon could apologize for putting them behind schedule and rushing his mother out the door, “For shame, brother mine,” stopped him. Aegon wrapped Jon up in a laughing hug and hauled him off his feet. “Rhae and I were beginning to think we were going to have to come south and fetch you from the clutches of Dany’s horse lord ourselves.”

Aegon didn’t so much drop Jon back to the ground as he tumbled him into Rhaenys’ waiting arms. Jon did for her what Aegon had done for him and swept her off the ground into a spin. With a laugh, all three siblings tumbled onto a sofa of their own. “I had letters to deliver in Dorne.”

“ _Letters_ , is that what we’re calling it now?” Jon shoved Aegon’s leering face away and hauled Rhaenys up and over his lap to sit between them.

“Don’t tease, Ae. Jon must be terribly disappointed that Oberyn and Ellaria were away.”

“They weren’t away.”

Rhaenys and Aegon stopped mid-laugh and turned to stare at him with their matching purple eyes. “Oberyn and Ellaria were there?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Because you only got to Dorne late last night and you left this morning.”

“What’s your point?”

The siblings shared a long look before Rhaenys twisted around him, up and off the sofa, dragging Jon’s head down into her lap while Aegon hauled his legs up onto the couch and then dropped down on Jon’s hips and leaning forward to get a good look at his brother’s face. “You haven’t spent less than a week at a time in Oberyn’s bed since you figured out what your dick was for.”

“Aegon!” Jon protested, trying to glance over at their parents in the desperate hope that maybe they would’ve left the room. Rhaenys pushed his cheek back to looking at them and not the bemused smiles of their parents.

At least Rhaenys gratified him with a blush of her own, but she quickly ruined that by adding, “He’s not wrong. We were in Dorne for a month and we barely saw you at all.”

“I was sixteen!”

“And we agree that your self control has gotten much better since then. But to go from a week’s worth of sex to no sex at all seems unlikely.”

“It wasn’t no—” Jon tried to cut himself off, but the damage was done.

“You what?” Aegon squeaked. With a mortified groan, Jon buried his face in Rhaenys’ stomach. “I thought you’d just been too exhausted from traveling to have sex, or maybe Oberyn had a cold, or maybe you caught something contagious when you were visiting Viserys’ brothels. Not that Oberyn wouldn’t have a cure for whatever you caught, or wouldn’t have a way around it. And if Oberyn was sick you could still be with Ellaria, and if you were exhausted I’m sure that—”

“Ae!” Jon flailed out and punched his brother in the chest without moving his face.

“You’re right, I should’ve known that there’s no possible circumstance that wouldn’t end up with you in bed with them, but I can’t figure out what in the world you’re doing here.”

“We told them we’d be in Winterfell today so I came home. What’s so difficult about that?”

“Jon, you only spent one night with Oberyn and Ellaria. You have to admit, that’s a bit out of character for you. We only want to make sure nothing happened.” Rhaenys ran her fingers through his hair like that would make this less mortifying.

“I told you it was something to be worried about!” Rhaegar muttered at his wives.

“And I told you he’s fine. Better still, _Jon_ told you he’s fine. There’s nothing for any of you to worry about.”

“Are you really well, brother?” Rhaenys asked.

“Not just yet. But I’m closer to well than I have been in a long time.”

“I am sorry to interrupt, my lieges,” Varys said from within the door, “but the riders are ready and waiting. If you do not depart soon then you will have to camp for the night before you reach Winterfell.”

“And I shudder to think how poorly my dear sister-in-law would take that slight.”

“No,” Aegon refused with a smile. “We must get to the bottom of this puzzle before they can leave. Tell me Varys, who do your birds says our Jon belongs to? Because he certainly cannot be our father’s son.”

“It’s true,” Rhaenys giggled. “No child of Rhaegar Targaryan would leave their lovers’ bed to go visit dour relatives.”

Jon could imagine a world where such words would hurt. Some version of him where he didn’t have his knees draped across his brother’s, where his head wasn’t cradled in his sister’s lap as she stroked through his hair just like a little mother. He could imagine a world where these two knew precisely what he was and hated him for it. A world where to every person in Westeros he was the bastard son of a king.

But he did not live in that world, he lived in this one. This world where his fearless elder brother would roast someone alive for calling him a bastard, where his sister would ruin them politically for doubting his birthright. This world where he was cradled between them because they hated it when he went to visit Winterfell. Hated that they could not protect him against whispers about Lyanna’s disgrace, could not protect him against hushed words whispered by the faithful who thought he must be some kind of demon because he had been born so early and yet lived so well. Or those whispers from those who still considered the Targaryans as foreign invaders, and the great blood of the First Men had finally been contaminated by their touch.

Whatever horrors the rest of Westeros whispered about the existence of Jon Targaryan – and there were many – they were easy to ignore because they were from strangers. But whispers naming Jon an abomination from his own people, they were harder to ignore. So here we say tucked between his older siblings while they fussed, trying to find a way to keep Jon in the South.


	2. NCIS and Bones (sniper crossover)

"The lead members of a community always intersect." 

Booth knew it was coming the moment the words crossed Bones' lips as they started their manhunt for whatever sniper had killed the Gravedigger on her way in to be sentenced. The FBI trusted Booth to sort through the list of possible options and decide which snipers did and didn't qualify suspects, but other people being in charge had never mattered one good damn to Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs. 

So there they stood around a small whiteboard with six pictures of the people east of the Mississippi who could've pulled off the shot, Booth, Bones, Sweets and Miss Julian all brainstorming about sniper motivations and the kill method used on the poor girl who'd been stabbed so the sniper could use her apartment as a nest. While Booth had kind of been hoping that someone from the front desk would have the balls to call up and warn him, in walked Jethro Gibbs and agents scattered. "I figured I save you the trouble of calling me in."

"You're not a suspect, Sergeant." Booth tried to gesture the man into his office before anyone could start talking and offending each other. 

Gibbs planted his feet in the bullpen and all but snarled, "Since you and I are the only ones in DC, I better damn well be on your suspect list, Seeley."

"Excuse me, who are you?" Bones interrupted.

"NCIS Special Agent Jethro Gibbs, this Dr. Temeprance Brennan of the Jeffersonian, Dr. Lance Sweets our FBI profiler, and DA Caroline Julian." 

"We've met before, Cher." Julian said. 

"We have. You're one of the few prosecutors who thinks I should testify."

"You're blunter than a loaf of bread, Agent Gibbs, but that makes people trust you. I'm charming enough for the both of us so I don't need you to be anything other than convincing."

"How do you know Booth?" Bones demanded.

"I was on my way out when Booth was on his way in," Gibbs answered. "We didn't overlap by much, but you recognize good when you see it. Which is why I should be on that list, no matter how much Seeley thinks I don't have it in me."

"The shooter stabbed a girl who lived in the apartment he used as his nest, Gibbs. Then stuck her body in the tub and covered it in Clog-O."

"Yeah, that would rule me out." Gibbs dropped down to a spare chair that someone had abandoned when they fled.

"Why? Are you not trained in close quarter combat?"

"I'm a marine, so I'm trained enough. I don't kill women."

"Do you adhere to misogynistic stereotypes that women are somehow physically inferior to men and need to be protected? Because--"

"Bones! Let it go." Booth tried to nudge her away from getting up in Gibbs' space

"No, Booth. Women are genetical and physiologically different than men, but that doesn't make them physically inferior--"

"My wife and daughter were murdered, Dr. Brennan. Even before that, my superiors knew I didn't have the stomach to kill a woman because she was someone else's daughter. I couldn't make myself do that to another father. I'm told that's ironic."

"Actually, it's--"

"Bones, not important right now." 

"Tell me how I can help." Gibbs interrupted before Booth and Bones could get too distracted. 

"Gibbs, I can't--"

"Seeley, sit down and tell me what you know. Someone who's gone off the reservation is a hell of a lot more likely to talk to me than he'll talk to you."

"Why?" Bones asked.

"Because I'm more likely to understand them. Seeley, sit."

Booth dropped into another rolling chair with a sigh. "They were showing off. They shot from an apartment building 1500 meters away, into a crowd of people, in front of a courthouse after they'd rigged the arm guard to get stuck and force the transport van into their line of sight."

"They were reckless. Shooting into a crowd like that has a hell of a lot of variables. It wasn't just about taking out the target, it was about making a show."

Booth slumped back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "Whoever it is, they still think they're doing the right thing. They could've made the same shot and had an easier time of it from at least five other apartments in the building, but they picked the one person in the place they could easily identify as expendable." 

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow and Sweets finally got himself together enough to say, "She was an escort." 

"The people in the other apartments?"

"We can't get warrants to check."

"So it was probably a quick look into the apartments and not something the sniper was planning to keep hidden."

"No, they'd know that even if I wasn't at the courthouse it would be an FBI investigation, and I'd get called in to examine the scene. I'm the FBI's best sniper."

"You're ignoring something, Seeley."

Booth dragged himself up to look Gibbs in the eye. "What?"

"They weren't showing off. They were showing off for you." Booth flinched and tried to speak, but no one interrupted Gibbs. "They killed your killer and they did it in front of you. This wasn't just about taking out a serial killer, whoever did this was putting out a lure."

Gibbs let that hang in silence for a minute, but Bones had never done well at silence without a body in front of her to dissect. "For us to catch them?"

Gibbs kept his eyes on Booth, who was trying to look away but couldn't manage it. "They're trying to talk you over the line."

"The line?" Bones demanded. Booth didn't need to look to know the euphemisms were driving her insane.

"The line where you decide who is and isn't worth killing. Someone is looking for a partner."


	3. Shameless SGA

They were supposed to be hopping a private plane from Chicago back to Colorado Springs because John couldn't stomach the thought of civilian transport, but despite how much John wanted to get back to Atlantis and how twitchy Ronan was in this galaxy, he really couldn't ignore the scruffy boys loading stuff into an unmarked white van as he passed through the neighborhood.

 

“Sheppard?”

 

John pulled over with a sigh. “That house is getting robbed.”

 

Ronon furrowed and had to watch the boys haul stuff out of the house before he could understand. "Like, they're taking someone's stuff?"

 

"Yup."

 

"Are they looting it because they're dead?"

 

"Nope, just ballsy little bastards taking who broke in and are taking stuff in the middle of the day."

 

“Your planet it messed up, Sheppard.”

 

“Don’t I know it.” John unbuckles, but sat there for a minute.

 

Ronan drew the alien gun that John still wasn't really sure how he managed to sneak through all the security at Stargate Command. “Aren’t we going to stop them?”

 

“I’m trying to decide if the day’s worth of paperwork that I’m going to have to do to justify getting involved in with the civilians is worth it.” The gunshot ringing out from the house made that decision for him. Both men dove out the car and across the street with their guns drawn. There were three boys running out of the house, following by a screaming lady in a bathrobe. She shot again and despite her drunken swerving the boy in the very back went down.

 

With all the authority afforded by his dress blues, John shouted for everyone to put their hands up. Thankfully, the crazy lady dropped the gun. The other two boys kept running, screaming at the driver to go, go, go!

 

A spindly little red-headed boy had the guts to dive out of the driver's seat. “We’re not leaving Mickey!”

 

Ronon tossed open the door and points his gun at the other two who were scrambling for the keys.He leveled his gun at them and grumbled, "Don’t be stupid," before they could try and pick a fight. John left Ronon to haul Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb out of the car while he forced the shouting ball of piss and vinegar to stay face down on the ground. "Stop it!"

 

"Fuck you, pig!"

 

Red dropped to his knees beside them and out-shouted them both, “You got shot! Stay the fuck down!”

 

“It's just in the ass, Gallagher! Why the fuck didn’t you drive!”

 

“I’m not leaving you behind!”

 

John grabbed Red by the scruff of his shirt before they could get into a lover's quarrel right here on the front law. “Trunk of my car, first aid kit, go.” Red scrambled off. “And you—“ he shoved Mickey back down to the ground hard enough to knock the air out of him so that maybe the idiot would stay down this time. “If you’re lucky, the bullet is just in your ass. If you’re not, then all this struggling around means it’s going to nick your artery and you’re going to bleed out here on this lady’s lawn. Is that how you want to die?”

 

“I’m not going to die, you fucker!”

 

“You sure? Because I’m sure everyone who knows you would be happy to spend forever telling how you died on some north side lawn because you couldn’t shut up long enough for medical attention. That sound like a story people would believe?” Red dropped down beside him.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Hear that? Your buddy already believes me and he’s the loyalest one of your crew.”

 

“They’re not my crew, they’re my fucking useless cousins!” The last part the boy screamed at the two. Ronan had them on their knees, hands behind their heads, facing the ground.

 

“Sorry, Mickey!”

 

“Sorry, you fuckers? You were gonna leave me behind!”

 

“Mickey? Your name’s Mickey, kid?”

 

“What’s it to you motherfucker?”

 

“I make it a rule to know the name of a guy before I touch his ass.”

 

“Why in the fuck would you want to do that?”

 

“I’m too old for one night stands in the back of a bar.”

 

“So what, you go on dates and shit?”

 

“Fuck no. We do a lot of fucking in between shifts and he eats me out of house and home.”

 

“I know what that feels like.”

 

“Fuck you, Mickey.” Red grumbled, handing John gauze. 

“You got me shot, Gallagher.”

 

“Gallagher, I’m guessing that’s not a first name?”

 

“Ian, sir.”

 

“You’re siriing me a lot, kid. You ROTC?”

 

“Yes, sir. I mean—”

 

“Call me, Sheppard. I don’t even let the people in my own command ‘sir’ me when I can help it.”

 

They could hear the sirens on approach and John asked, "before the cops get here, you want the two idiots to take the rap for this?"

 

"No, they’re family. Fucking idiots, but family."

 

Sheppard gave him a squeeze on the shoulder that Mickey probably wouldn't have accepted if he hadn't been shot. "Does Red need to get out of here?"

 

"I'm not leaving him!" And there was the spitfire that had probably gotten the two of them together.

 

"And that's nice, but I don't think your CO would happy to find you at the scene of a shooting with your house robber boyfriend."

 

Somehow Gallagher managed to get paler. “How could you tell?”

 

“Lets say I know what a man looks like when he thinks his partner's been shot.”

 

XXXXX

 

Sheppard got them to the good hospital and no one asked insurance questions when you had a man in dress blues claiming you. Sheppard sprawled back in one of the waiting room chairs while Ian paced the length of the room and Ronan watched the boy like he was a wild animal."

 

"So, tell me why the Army."

 

Ian didn't break his stride. "That's a stupid question coming from you."

 

"Yeah kid. I’m career military, I get that. My question isn’t why the military, it’s why the Army.”

 

That got Ian to drop into a chair. "What do you mean?"

 

"I mean why that particular branch. Sure West Point is great, but most of my command staff came out Annapolis, and XO came out of the Air Force Academy, so why Army?”

 

“I want to be an officer.”

 

“Again kid, I’m just going to keep asking why. You’d have a hell of a better time enlisting on a technical track, spend your time fixing planes or shuffling the JAG’s paperwork than you would running around getting shot at.”

 

“I saw you today, are you honestly trying to tell me that you don’t get your hands dirty?”

 

“A hell of a lot more dirty than I’d like. I’m a pilot first and foremost, I just happened to be angry all the damn time when I was starting out my career and my Captain pointed me in the direction of dirty hands.”

 

"You’re special ops.”

 

“If you’ve done half the research into the military I think you have, you know I can’t answer that.”

 


	4. Derek works for the SGA

The first time Stiles heard the name Derek Hale, the whole pack had just gotten their collective asses handed to them by a fragment of the Alpha Pack. The teenagers were piled together in the living room of the Hale’s apartment in a tangle of blood and gauze, torn between snuggling it out and patching one another up. Laura and Peter though, they hid in the kitchen and had a hissed argument about how they weren’t going to get everyone through this alive unless they did something different.

 

“You’ve got a pack of puppies and humans as your only defense against the most dangerous Alphas on this continent. You need to call him.” Peter snapped his words and fangs at Laura as she pressed an ice pack to the bruise blossoming over Peter’s entire side.

 

“Derek cut his ties with this pack a long time ago.”

 

“Now is not the time to be obtuse, Laura. He left because we were both furious with him for selling himself to get me out of my coma. It offended you as an Alpha that your Beta went to someone else for help, and I couldn’t stomach what he’d done to save me. He left because neither one of us could stand to look at him and never came back because he thought it was what we wanted. He will come home if you ask him too.”

 

Laura dropped the ice pack and tried to get out of the room, but Peter wasn’t having it. He’d nearly gotten his guts spilled out tonight, but he was certain that no matter how pissed she was, Laura wouldn’t actually hurt him. “Don’t be a fool. Derek’s military trained and an Alpha in his own right. Even more, he’s the only friend we’ve got who would be willing to come and face down the Alpha Pack.”

 

Laura dropped her head to Peter’s shoulder with a sigh and let her uncle run a shaking hand through her hair. “What if he doesn’t?”

 

“He will. You know he will. It might take him time to get free, but he will come. That’s the kind of boy he is.”

 

Stiles didn’t hear Laura’s phone call, or anything else about Derek, and he knew better than to ask people about missing family members. In the midst of running and hiding and pack members getting kidnapped, Stiles forgot all about Derek Hale and how he was supposed to turn up and be Peter’s ace in the hole for saving the day.

 

At least, Stiles forgot about Derek until a wolfsbane flash bomb took down their whole pack when they were in the middle of getting their asses kicked, again.

 

Stiles stumbled back to his feet just in time to see an unknown Wolf in a gas mask ripping out Deucalion’s throat. Stiles and Lydia shared a look asking if maybe they should intervene, or at least ask some questions, but since the new guy had also severed Ennis’ head from the rest of his body, they were pretty sure he was on their side. At least, until he snatched up a moaning Kali and hauled her over to Laura, who was just barely beginning to get herself back together. Stiles and Lydia darted forward when the guy grabbed Laura’s hand, but rather than hurting her, he used Laura’s claws to slice Kali’s throat. The extra jolt of Alpha power had Laura immediately groaning and starting to push herself up.

 

Stiles flinched away when the guy turned his claws on the twins. They may have been evil bastards, but they were his age. Only, the stranger paused before slicing them open. “Twins?” he asked in a voice not as deep as his bulk implied.

 

Stiles croaked out an affirmative, and the guy wasted no time in turning his claws on them. Only, instead of dying like the rest, the boys split into two, and the guy just left them there. “I don’t kill children,” the guy snapped, to a question Stiles didn’t actually think he’d asked.

 

“Der?” Laura croaked.

 

The guy stripped off his mask and dropped down to help Laura up with soft hands. “Take it easy, Lo. Your head is going to hurt like hell for a few hours.” But Laura didn’t look like she cared. She ran shaking fingers over his cheeks like Derek was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.


	5. Bilbo and the SGA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a version of this last year and them stumbled across this alternate version of the same story last week.

John was 87% sure that the SGC hadn’t actually _hired_ Bilbo Baggins, Rodney had just forged the paperwork and no one wanted to ask questions. Honestly, John wouldn’t have been surprised if Rodney had sent a team of Marines to tranq the good doctor, and had them pack up everything he owned while he was unconscious and ship him off to the Pegasus galaxy without actually asking Bilbo if he actually wanted to come. Bilbo was a friendly enough sort of guy that John figured the man would’ve just huffed at the bad planning, then got right back to work, not caring at all about the change in location.

 

Anyone who might have figured out that Rodney had smuggled a historian into a different galaxy like other people smuggled vodka, either respected Rodney’s decisions about who was smart enough to come play with them or was too terrified to call him out on it.

 

John was torn about whether letting the stout little scientist -- “I’m a _historian_ , Colonel. I have a natural aptitude for languages and professional experience has granted me a basic understanding of humanity, but that makes me neither a linguist, nor an anthropologist" -- come to Pegasus was General O’Neill’s punishment or possessiveness. That broke down to John being about 50% convinced O’Neill was punishing Rodney for something—and by extension John—and 50% convinced that O’Neill just didn’t want to send Daniel Jackson.

 

The remaining plus or minus percentage was John thinking that maybe the universe was just a bitch.

 

Because Doctor Bilbo Baggins, PhD, PhD, and Oxford Don? Bilbo had the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.

 

And saying that out of all of Atlantis’ batshit crazy scientists, Bilbo was the one they universally agreed was the most likely to do something insane without realizing he was going to get himself killed? That was saying something.

 

It wasn’t that Bilbo wasn’t worth his weight in weapons-grade naquadah, because he absolutely was. (And not just because the man was so small that his weight in said fissionable material wasn’t actually all that high.) No, Bilbo had pretty much made himself indispensable in all the non-life-and-death areas of Atlantis.

 

John understood that the parts of Rodney that he found adorable, other people found terrifying. Virulent yelling and scathing sarcasm were just Rodney’s preferred forms of expression, and who was John to deny him that when he’d completely earned the right to call people idiots when they were, in fact, being idiots. (John was a fan of beating the shit out of his men in the sparring ring—or having Ronon do it for him when he was feeling his age—but Lorne had told him more than once that his men took that as a sign of affection. There was no accounting for the insanity of Atlantis marines. Though, John knew he didn’t really have room to talk on that front.)

 

What John didn’t understand though, was that apparently the scientists found Radek only slightly less terrifying than Rodney

 

John had no idea that the Atlantis science department could get any more efficient, then in swooped Bilbo, with his calming demeanor, his willing ear, and his endless supply of tea and cookies—“ _Biscuits_ , Colonel.”—and all of a sudden, it did. By leaps and bounds it did. On more than one occasion John had been subjected to Bilbo’s remarkable ability to make you feel like he empathized with you completely while simultaneously giving you a kick in the pants. Officially, Bilbo was the head of the soft sciences, but everyone knew that meant all the sciences that Rodney didn’t actually consider science. About ten seconds after the first time Bilbo tutted at Rodney for mocking someone’s flawed calculations, it turned into being unofficially in charge of everyone. There was only so much Bilbo could do for the other departments about their actual _science_ , but Radek was more than capable of that, while Bilbo had a gift for handling the personnel problems.

 

At the same time, one of the few conditions of Bilbo’s employment—and John didn’t know if it said something about how much good Bilbo was at his job that the IOA was willing to let him set conditions, or if it said how much Rodney would tamper with their computer systems—was access to the gardens and the kitchen. Apparently Bilbo had spent his adult life in a charming cottage in the countryside around Oxford, and as nice as it was to live in an ancient, alien skyscraper overlooking untouched ocean, Bilbo was rather fond of his house.

 

John could just imagine Rodney rolling his eyes and scoffing about what in the world any self-respecting scientist would need _plants_ for, but Bilbo had been granted quarters down the hall from the smaller greenhouses that the botanists used for their personal projects and unrestricted access to the kitchens. John had been terrified about the word ‘unrestricted’ the second it crossed Rodney’s lips—scientists tended not to do well without limitations, and KP officers tended to handle infringements on their territory poorly, but now Bilbo was in charge of all Atlantis’ baked goods.

 

Anyone with sense would have traded such a highly valuable commodity for something like alcohol, or time off, or chocolate, but in exchange for his scones, Bilbo charged stories. (Though, after one of the airmen failed to respond with raptures to Bilbo’s fresh from England chocolate, he did implement a policy that if you were ordering something chocolate-flavored, you had to supply the chocolate yourself.)

 

Bilbo had done more preparatory work for Pegasus than most of the people who crossed the galaxies. Somehow—and here John again suspected Rodney’s hacking was at play—he’d read every last mission report that had been generated by Atlantis. Like anyone with sense, Bilbo knew there was a difference between what actually happened and how things were presented on paper, and he adored settling people into the comfortable armchairs he had before his totally non-regulation fireplace—again, Rodney—and listened to their stories.

 

John had been a POW and he thought his interrogators could have learned plenty about information gathering from Bilbo Baggins. John hadn’t even realized he was talking the first time until he was halfway through telling Bilbo what it felt like to turn into a bug. 

 

(He’d stopped mid-sip of tea—which he normally hated, but apparently Earl Grey with a spot of honey was perfect—and just looked at Bilbo over the rim of his mug. “You’re a little terrifying, you know that?”

 

“I’m honored you think so, Colonel.”)

 

Under normal circumstances John would’ve thought that Bilbo was the deftest spy the IOA had ever placed on Atlantis, what with the trustworthy face and incessant need to know everything that for the health and welfare of everyone involved really shouldn’t be committed to paperwork. But after his time in Siberia, Rodney had the best spy-dar that John had ever seen, and Rodney had already explained exactly why he insisted on Bilbo coming to Pegasus.

 

Normally the transfer list to Atlantis was the latest batch of marines and a replacement for whatever scientist Rodney had verbally flayed that week. John always knew the number of soldiers he was due to receive—he was the military commander after all—and knew when a scientist was due to run home with their tail between their legs because Rodney liked to complain about staff retention while at the same time complaining about their competency. So when John opened up the latest data burst and saw a historian when they not only weren’t replacing one, they’d never actually had one before, he got curious.

 

“Why are we getting a historian?”

 

“Why would I know that?” John made a mental note to work with Rodney on his lying. Because when Rodney kept his eyes down and focused on his work, that meant his big brain was utterly focused on its work. But when he put forth enough effort to glower at John and flap his arms like the very notion of knowing something about the soft sciences was offensive to his very being, that meant he was distracted from the science by the lying.

 

“Rodney.” John threatened.

 

He’d expected a rant about how Daniel Jackson had guilted him into giving the soft sciences a little more space, or maybe that he’d traded a historian position with IOA for an extra slot someplace else, or an extra shipment of something that the IOA thought ought to be more regulated on a base at the ass end of space. But instead, Rodney dropped back to his chair with a sigh and looked John dead in the eye with the kind of steadiness he only pulled out when he needed John to really, really understand that what he was telling him was the absolute truth, no exaggerations necessary.

 

It turned out they were getting a historian because they needed one. Because they really were at the ass end of space and whole cultures and societies were being eaten to extinction every day, and when they were gone, they were gone. While Rodney may not give a shit about people at all, even he could understand that they needed to do something to keep the Wraith from wiping out every last trace of the people here. Who knew how many cultures the damn space vampires had destroyed? And Rodney could admit they were going to lose some more battles before they won the war, and who knew how many people that would kill along the way.

 

John didn’t know quite how he felt about the Pegasus Galaxy Historian treating their own people like their stories needed to be collected and stored like they might be lost to the sea if he didn’t. He’d thought it was morbid, until he’d seen Bilbo like a child at SGA-4 explaining how they’d spent the night running across PX7-454’s jungle thinking they were being chased by the local equivalent of a sabertooth tiger, only to realize with the dawn’s light that the planet’s messed up gravity meant it was a particularly stompy kitten. (There were some stories that John didn’t mind being remembered, no matter the reason why.)

 

Somehow the little scientist had made himself mission essential, not for the tangibles he contributed, but for the intangibles. 

 

Which was why any time Bilbo suggested going offworld, John loudly and strenuously objected. He’d thought it was just beginners bad luck when they got culled on PX4-257—and really, John didn’t feel like he should’ve had to explain why it was a _bad idea_ to talk to the Wraith holding them prisoner. And yes, on their visit to Dagan, Bilbo had managed to turn a three hour long conversation about the weather with the High Priest into the right to conduct studies on the ZPM so long as it stayed on their world, but then the Genii had turned up, and John really didn’t appreciate getting shot at. Again. And then the **Blanks**! The **Blanks** took such a liking to Bilbo that they tried to _breed_ him. (“No, they offered me the use of their highly valuable gestational technology. There is a difference, Colonel.”

 

“They offered the use of their technology and the village elder’s daughter to contribute the other half of your baby.”

 

“Still a difference.”)

 

Any time a request to go offworld came across John’s desk, he automatically gave it the digital equivalent of a big red X. Bilbo still managed to leave the planet, but if he was going to, he first had to convince either Teyla or Rodney that his presence there was absolutely necessary in a way that none of Atlantis’ other anthropologists, linguists, archaeologists, psychiatrists, or medics would be capable of doing. (Elizabeth almost never campaigned for Bilbo because their skill sets were close enough that often she was the one who volunteered to go in Bilbo’s place. Despite John’s concerns about the expedition’s leader going off planet, no one had ever tried to breed _her_.)

 

Which is why, when then Atlantis delegation to Erebor filed through the gate, John had that itch in his gut that said things were about to turn into the kind of shit that made John regret his posting.

 

The Ereborian gateroom was a long, dark chamber about the size of the gateroom back on Atlantis. Whereas Atlantis’ gateroom was full of floor to ceiling windows, Erebor’s was lit only by torches, and John’s pilot sense told him they were firmly underground. The room’s walls were solid stone, no joining lines or mortar that he could see, like the wold place had been carved out of one giant hunk of rock. At the same time, the walls were covered floor to ceiling in engravings, which Rodney had snapped a few pictures of the first time they were actually allowed through the gate to Erebor.

 

They’d been approached by Erebor through a neutral third party, and the first three times they’d actually _met_ an Ereborian in person it had been at varying neutral locations. Even now the Atlantians weren’t allowed to know Erebor’s gate address. It irritated the hell out of Rodney, but John could appreciate a healthy bit of paranoia in what seemed to be the one culture in Pegasus that had managed to thrive despite the Wraith. Every time Rodney went to complain, Teyla elbowed him in the ribs as a reminder that being allowed through Erebor’s gate at all was the highest of honors.

 

Bilbo had taken one look at the photos Rodney brought back—both to gloat that he got to go off world and to sate Bilbo’s desire to see something other than ocean—and burst into a ramble about the Asgard, Ancient Norse, and all manner of things that John was pretty sure weren’t English. Which meant that the next time they went to Erebor, Bilbo had managed to convince Elizabeth that despite Rodney being perfectly capable of taking pictures of things—which was a lie, John could admit—or one of their linguists actually going along to take a look at the language, or _any other field-trained scientist_ going to take the pictures Bilbo needed to conduct a proper study, Bilbo was going. John was pretty sure that Bilbo had made the case that his presence as Atlantis’ Chief Historian would convince their tenuous allies that Atlantis respected Erebor’s culture, which might be what they needed to actually turn these negotiations into something that didn’t make Elizabeth want to pull her hair out. (Though there was a very real possibility that Bilbo had promised his mother’s pie.)

 

When they stepped through the gate, the little archaeologist hung around just long enough for his introduction and to offer one of his cripplingly bright smiles before he slipped past the diplomatic pleasantries and towards the closest wall. He pulled out a pocket-sized, leather bound notebook and shed his tac vest and travel pack like they weren’t in an unsecured location. Rodney trailed along behind Bilbo, not bothering pretending to be polite since he didn’t see the purpose in trying, even when people were trying to be polite with him. He bitched the whole way about how this was ridiculous, and Bilbo owed him muffins for this, all the while cradling Bilbo’s camera against his chest like he thought his own clumsiness would come out to betray him and he’d drop it. But for all their smarts, neither scientist noticed the way they were being watched.

 

The whole Ereborian delegation watched them go, while Elizabeth explained Bilbo’s presence with the same soft smile everyone eventually wore when they were talking about Bilbo. Fundin, the Ereborian negotiator, just gave an inexcrutable hmm, and waived Elizabeth into the adjoining conference room, which happened to be the only place any of them were allowed to go beyond the gateroom. (And by any of them, John meant Elizabeth. Because apparently Ereborian negotiations insisted on just one representative from the other species getting grilled by as many people as the Ereborians damn well pleased. Teyla said it was because who the Atlantians chose to represent them said as much about them as a people as the words they actually used.)

 

Usually Rodney plopped down on the stairs leading up to the gate while Ronon and John took turns pacing the room on watch and Teyla chatted with one of Erebor’s generals. The trouble wasn’t Rodney varying their usual schedule, it was the general.

 

Thorin Oakenshield—which was a nickname not a single Ereborian seemed willing to explain—was tracking the two scientists across the room with a heavy gaze. No, not _them_.

 

Bilbo. Just Bilbo.

 

Son of a bitch, John couldn’t help thinking. They’d taken Bilbo Baggins to what was possibly the safest planet in the known worlds, and he was getting looked at like the general was about to offer to buy him. (Another mission that had totally happened.)

 

John took half a step forward, planning to put himself between Bilbo and Thorin, but Teyla grabbed his sleeve and held him back. She gave him a look that could’ve melted the skin right off his face. “But—”

 

“Trust me.” She hissed.

 

And John did. He did! There was no situation he could possibly imagine where he didn’t want Teyla at his back, but Thorin was staring at Bilbo like he wanted to eat the little man alive. And that was not a visual that John needed roaming around his head, thank you very much. Teyla didn’t want to pick a fight with the Ereborians, and John got that. But he also knew damn well how vicious Rodney was going to get if he thought his Bilbo was being infringed upon. And _that_ , more than anything, was what they did not need.


	6. Mickey as Sheppard's XO

Colonel Sheppard's personal aid was the meanest-tempered, foulest-mouthed little piece of shit that Rodney had ever met. If the man had had anything better than a GED, Rodney might have actually been attracted to him. As it was, Stargate Command was taking bets on whether Airman Milkovich was Sheppard's lover or his illegitimate son because officers didn't get to haul a lowly Airman with them from posting to posting, not even full birds.

Rodney was certain that Sheppard either had blackmail on somebody or knew where some particularly dangerous bodies were buried, because people didn't get to politely decline postings in the US military, not even the postings that were going to send you to a different galaxy on what was probably a one-way mission. Unless you were Sheppard, then you got to decline three times and still have Homeworld Security refusing to discuss any other options for the job, no matter how irritated the IOA was getting at Sheppard for playing hard to get. (Apparently when Director of Homeworld Security and the Commandant of the Marine Corps said you were the best man for the job, they'd just offer to send you through with more and more personnel and surface to air missiles like lack of armaments was what was keeping Sheppard from stepping through the gate to another galaxy.)

“Weir thinks he's holding out until they offer him command of the whole thing.” Bill Lee tried and failed to whisper. Once again, Rodney thanked whoever had the unexpected stroke of common sense to deny Lee permission to go with them to Pegasus.

“Then she can't be as smart as people think she is. If Sheppard wanted command he'd ask for it and Homeworld would back him up on it.” Lieutenant Cadman snapped.

The scientist gossip circle had followed Miko into Rodney’s office when she came to update him on the shouting matches about the Atlantis command going on upstairs, so it was Rodney’s own damn fault that they were all invading his workspace, but he could still be irritated.

“Not if they were trying to passively outmaneuver the IOA,” Miko pointed out.

“There’s no Atlantis Expedition without the US military,” Rodney interrupted before they could start wasting time theorizing that any of these people knew how to sneak when it didn’t involve guns. “If they wanted a military commander of the expedition then they'd just appoint one without all this passive aggression. They only do aggressive aggression.”

“The IOA would refuse to authorize the expedition if they did that.” That was one of the scientists who was apparently smart enough for Rodney to get stuck with, but too stupid for him to remember the name.

“If civilian leadership was their only concern, then Homeworld would assign Sheppard to the SGC, force O’Neill into retirement and send him as a civilian to Pegasus. Or perhaps if they're worried about needing O’Neill as Hammond’s replacement they'd send Colonel Carter.” Rodney whirled around to object to the very thought, but Zelenka cut him off. “Yes, yes, she is not needed when we have your big brain, but it’s true. Colonel Sheppard isn’t angling for anything better, he is simply refusing.”

“People keep telling me how smart you assholes are, but I think they're fucking with me.” And there was the tiny ball of fury that only one person on base had been stupid enough to call Sheppard’s lap dog. (Milkovich had managed to find one of the mountain’s few camera blind spots and beaten the shit out of a marine who was at least three times his size. The man had been so embarrassed that he’d reported to medical that he’d fallen down the stairs.)

“How did you get down here?” the nameless idiot – was it Keifer? – demanded.

Milkovich looked at Rodney like it was _his_ fault that a man so stupid had been allowed to work for the SGC. “The door to this level takes forever to close.” Rodney would bet that the kid knew the precise number of seconds it took and probably hadn’t had to wait all that long for someone to be too busy chatting to notice they were being tailed into a secure section.

“I told the General we needed to card key the elevator and not just the door.” Cadman grumbled.

“Too many idiots complained that it was costing them valuable time to register the door locks already.” Zelenka said, glowering at Lee and Kevin-something.

“You wished to tell us why the Colonel has refused Atlantis,” Miko interrupted before the others could start trying to defend their honor and dragging them all off course. Milkovich’s eyebrow went sky high, but since Miko was her own tiny ball of quiet vengeance instead of the seething rage that made up the Airman, she was unphased by her kindred spirit. “You wouldn’t have interrupted if you didn’t.”

Milkovich strolled past the tables full of disembowled Ancient equipment Rodney had scattered around the edge of the room. “Maybe I just like getting to call supposedly smart people fucking idiots.” He picked up a device and asked, “What the fuck is this?”

“A sonic screwdriver. Why won’t Sheppard come to Pegasus?”

“Why do you give a fuck, McKay? Weir’s been tossing around your name like you think Sheppard is a trumped up asshole who shouldn’t have the mission.”

Rodney glanced at Miko and she nodded. That was probably what she’d come in to talk to him about in the first place before the gaggle followed her. “That’s just stupid and the next time someone tells me about a meeting I won’t ignore them because we need Sheppard.”

Callahan squawked like Rodney had electrocuted him. “Shut up Kreely. Sheppard’s math is beautiful and his gene is better than O’Neill’s.”

“My name is Kavanaugh!”

"Whatever. We need Sheppard or statistically, we’re fucked.”

Rodney was pretty sure that it was the cursing that made Milkovich thaw towards him. He leaned against a table that he really shouldn’t be touching and shrugged. “He’s not going because of me.”

“Then you need to get over whatever fear you have of distant galaxies and get on board.”

Milkovich snorted. “I’m good to go, man. I don’t have anything in this galaxy I’m leaving behind or I wouldn’t have let Sheppard drag me to a fucking war zone.”

“Then what is it?” When the Airman paused for a second Rodney started snapping his fingers. “Come on, come on, come on! We can’t fix it until you tell us what we’re hacking.”

“You can’t hack people’s fucking memories, you fucker. You guys figured out how I started following around Sheppard, yet?”

Kavanaugh grumbled something poorly constructed about how you couldn’t be following someone when you were sucking their cock. Rodney braced himself for blood splatter, but Milkovich just turned to him with a feral little grin and said, “Stuck to his ass is rimming, you cunt.”

“You shouldn't swear in front of ladies.” Bill Lee tried to object, like _that_ was the important part.

“If they’re man enough to move to a different galaxy, they’re man enough for me to curse in front of them, you pussy. Sheppard sprang me from a murder charge. The brass isn’t going to let me leave the planet, and if Sheppard goes without me then they’ll send me in for the fifteen I owe. Eight for good behavior.”

There were quite a few squeaks that time. Zelenka just narrowed his eyes. “Attempted murder, yes? Or it would be more than fifteen.”

Milkovich shrugged. “Attempted, but not on purpose. I thought the bitch was dead.”

“Either she did something terrible or your attempted murder was accidental.”

“Shit Zelenka, what did you get up to in Russia that you’d know that?”

“Czech Republic,” Miko pointed out, and Zelenka gave her a grateful pat for the attempt to defend him.

“Is okay. He is Ukrainian teasing.”

Milkovich stiffened. “How’d you guess?”

“The way you say certain words I can hear the Slavic in your tongue. Your mother was immigrant, yes?” Milkovich gave him a wide-eyed nod, and Zelenka had the courage to give him a brotherly pat on the back. “Now, tell me what happened.”

“The bitch messed with my family. I was just gonna torture her but she had all kinds of shit in her system and tapped out. Only, she woke up after I stashed her body and the cops believed her shit about me trying to kill her and tried to put me away. Sheppard was at the courthouse for some fucking reason and told them I couldn’t have been trying to kill her because I’d fucking been talking to him about joining up. People who’re getting out of shitholes don’t get themselves stuck there with trying to kill a bitch. The judge was a fucking idiot who believed him. But the brass didn’t fucking like that Sheppard now had someone to worry about and said the second I got one fucking black mark they’d toss me back to the court and make me serve my time.”

Rodney manfully didn’t ask why in the hell the Airman hadn’t checked for a pulse.


	7. Sherlock and Kingsman

When Harry called one of the bureaucrats that just been in their meeting ‘perfectly pleasant,’ Eggsy knew it really meant ‘spineless twat.’ But when Mycroft Holmes agreed that he was ‘terribly droll,’ Eggsy couldn’t tell if the man understood they weren’t really complimenting someone. Though, Merlin snorted when Mycroft spoke, so maybe Eggsy was just the only one who didn’t know what was going on?

 

No, he didn’t really have to phrase that as a question: he _absolutely_ was the only one who was lost here.

 

Both Harry and Merlin had warned Eggsy before the interagency meeting that there were certain people that he shouldn’t sass, no matter how tempted. At the top of that list had been Mycroft Holmes. Eggsy had been expecting one of those slimy politicians he had to deal with leering at him now that he was Harry and Merlin’s mate of record. But Holmes had seemed like another posh public school bloke who was too good for getting his hands dirty in the field. But Harry and Merlin respected him, which meant that he had to be more than met the eye.

 

The three of them hadn’t expected Holmes to invite them over to his house for tea, and they sure as hell hadn’t expected ten minutes of small talk while Holmes acted like he really did just mean to have them over for tea. Though honestly, the least expected thing was the rumpled fellow who stepped through the front door with his own set of keys and met the three men crammed into one sofa across from Holmes with a bemused little smile. It wasn’t the smile, though, that had Eggsy sitting up like a hound.

 

“I’m sorry love, did I forget about a meeting?”

 

“No dear, it was a spontaneous sort of gathering after our meetings today.”

 

The salt and pepper man snorted. “Of course it was. Well I’m off duty for the night, so I’ll let you lot get back to your plotting.” The fellow gave a polite nod to Eggsy, seemingly one east end boy to another, or maybe a bit of politeness to the only Omega in the room.

 

But as the man went to step away, Holmes trailed his fingers across his arm. The man looked down, and Holmes quirked an eyebrow, a mountain of conversation for a man who had made a career out of blandness. And based on his partners, Eggsy had a bit of a weakness for handsome older men, but wow, Salt and Pepper was devastating when he smiled. He leaned down and gave Holmes a kiss. Not the awkward peck of a man uncomfortable showing affection in front of others, or the overindulgent kiss of a man pretending for witnesses, but the kiss of a man secure in himself and his partner kissing like he didn’t give a damn about the people in his house interrupting his homecoming.

 

The man left the room without a second glance. Merlin and Harry both looked to Mycroft with wide eyes, while Eggsy just watched Salt and Pepper as he vanished through the door.

 

“Thank you Holmes, I thought that you not being asexual was a bet I was never going to get to cash in on.” Mycroft ignored Merlin and watched Eggsy.

 

The young omega finally tore his eyes away from the door, and for the first time since joining Kingsman didn’t look to Harry or Merlin, but waited for a small nod from Mycroft before he blurted out, “He’s pregnant.”

 

“Beg pardon?” Merlin stumbled.

 

“Your fellow, he’s an omega, and he’s pregnant.”

 

“Indeed he is.” Holmes sipped on his tea.

 

“That’s why you wanted me to bring along Eggsy, because as another omega he would be able to smell it.” Mycroft gave Harry a nod. “Don’t you look at me like that, Mycroft Holmes, my whole world view has just been rearranged, I’m allowed to ask obvious questions because the obvious is apparently not so obvious anymore.”

 

“Yes, Gregory is pregnant. Yes, I thought it would be more believable coming from an Omega you trust rather than from an alpha you do not, and yes, the child is mine in case that’s another detail that is no longer obvious. And yes, you should know better than to bet against Merlin.”

 

“Your sass is unwelcome you great dramatic wanker.” Eggsy stared at Merlin like he was insane. He’d gotten a lecture about not pissing off the great Mycroft Holmes because the man could fuck up the whole of Kingsman with a flick of his pen. And here Merlin was, ignoring all the warnings he’d given Eggsy, though it seemed the great and powerful Holmes thought it was funny. The man chortled, swear down _chortled_ , which was a noise Eggsy didn’t think people could actually make.

 

“Considering I was certain that my line was going to end with me, I find myself willing to indulge in the dramatic this week.”

 

“But you love him.” It took Eggsy a good five seconds to realize the words had come out of his own damn mouth, and judging by the look on Holmes’ face and the way Harry was not so subtly reaching for his gun, this was how he was going to die.

 

“I find that I do, yes.”

 

“Holmes… you bloody bastard. Honestly, I didn't think you had it in you."

 

"Merlin!"

 

"It's alright, Mr. Unwin. I too was positive that I was incapable of such an emotion. When my housekeeper was informed that Gregory would be moving in, her response was an exclamation of relief that I had noticed for myself. Apparently my staff both at home and at work have been policing my moods with Gregory's presence for several months now."

 

"You didn't notice until they pointed it out to you, did you?"

 

"Precisely. I found myself quite mortified at all the missed signs."

 

"If it's any consolation, these two won't be able to tease you about that. I had to kiss the both of them in front of one another before they believed me." Merlin huffed out an objection and tossed an arm around Eggsy's shoulder, dragging him in to ruffle his hair.

 

“Lack of emotional awareness is a fairly uniform trait across the profession I am afraid. Now that the truth is out, perhaps you would like to check on Gregory, Mr. Unwin."

 

"Eggsy can keep a secret, Mycroft."

 

"As can Gregory." Mr. Holmes was like a statue, and not one of those Greek ones that Harry liked so much where they were all contorted and fighting, he was one of those Egyptian ones that were stiff and straight, and never once thought of cracking a smile. The man was so dry that Eggsy thought maybe their rapport over the last few minutes had just been a figment of his imagination, but Merlin gave him a squeeze and pushed him to his feet.

 

"On your way, lad. I think we've moved on to the treasonous portion of tonight's events."

 

The young omega left the room with a huff, but still he went and Mycroft watched him leave. "This is normally the point where someone comments that it's a good thing there's two of us since one old man wouldn't be enough for an omega like him."

 

Ah, Harry was obviously just as put out that his omega was being sent from the room as Eggsy was, though he was far more dramatic about his upset. "They intend it more as a slight on his background than on your stamina, I suppose? Though if you were concerned, that was not my object of contemplation."

 

"Because you know how adequate my stamina is?"

 

"I know how adequate your stamina _was_ and I can make an accurate assumption based upon what I know about your disposition, the training facilities at Kingsman, and of course, the reviews that I was privy to upon your assumption of the role of Arthur. That was not my concern either. Gregory has two ex-spouses, it is a battle every day not to flay their skin off their bones as punishment for ever touching him. I was contemplating how the two of your manage not be disposing of bodies on a weekly basis."

 

The silence behind Mycroft made him finally turn back from examining the hallway down which Eggsy had disappeared. Often Mycroft felt something akin to relief when he spoke with field agents because there was a brutality to the world that they understood better than any bureaucrat might hope. Upon meeting him for the first time many field agents were pleasantly surprised by being able to speak the pure truth to him. Though, occasionally Mycroft would speak the truth back and find himself on the receiving end of the looks he was getting now.

 

"Not good?"

 

"No, you spend all day with the fussy bureaucrats and occasionally I forget that you're undercover." The tension finally seeped out of Harry, like he was comfortable letting Eggsy roam about Mycroft's home because Mycroft was a brother in arms who would let no harm come to Eggsy if he could help it.

 

"The both of you are mad." Merlin grumbled, but it wasn't particularly convincing.

With the tension gone, Mycroft stepped over to the bar cart and poured both men a scotch. "Are you going to tell 5 and 6?" Merlin asked.

 

"Of course."

 

"Let me rephrase: _when_ are you going to tell them?"

 

"Sooner rather than later, I'm sure. I have several loose ends that must be settled before I can share that particular piece of information with people who would no doubt love to use it to secure my participation in activities I find frivolous."

 

"I'll always find it interesting that your main objection is to the inefficiency of certain plans rather than their ethical concerns, Holmes."

 

"You've bonded with the son of your deceased friend who is literally half your age. A boy over whom you are both professional superiors. I do believe ethics are always a question of circumstances, are they not?"

 

“And I imagine we have now reached the point where you would like to test just how flexible our ethics might be.”

 

“Again, unless you have undergone some abrupt personality change since we last spoke, I know precisely how flexible your ethics are, and that is why I asked to speak with you.”

 

“Out with it, Holmes.”

 

“I am creating contingency plans, Hart. Mating, if I was to mate, was to be done with a female of sufficient social standing and only to secure the continuation of my family line. Mating and creating a child for romantic purposes has never entered into any potential iteration of my future. Gregory’s presence in my life is wholly unexpected and I am, for lack of a better term, scrambling to make up for a lifetime of planning.”

 

“Hence the new house.”

 

“Indeed. I find myself no longer comfortable with my security personnel living off site.”

 

“And no one has bothered to ask you about moving in to a new house with an Omega?”

 

“I do not invite people in my home, Hart, as you well know. Anyone outside of my immediate staff has not a reason to check up on my living arrangements, though I am sure it will happen soon enough. Hence the remedial planning.”

 

“Lets skip to the end, Mycroft. You want Kingsman as an out.” Left to their own devices, Harry and Mycroft could verbally spar for the rest of the night, and Merlin had things he’d rather be doing.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You think we have the clout to protect you from 5 and 6 if you have to walk away?”

 

“I think I have the information necessary to protect myself from 5 and 6 if circumstances force me out of my current position.”

 

“Blackmail, you mean.”

 

“If we must be crude about it.”

 

“You want Kingsman because you want to keep working.”

 

“I want Kingsman because I _cannot stop_ working. I would rather that my country not come to end because I went into an unwilling early retirement. And I admit, it is much easier to keep oneself alive when you have well structured networks to rely upon rather than creating them from scratch for yourself.”


	8. Derek and Stiles vegas wedding

David Whittemore was a prissy little thing, which on the whole Peter wouldn’t have minded if Whittemore didn’t seem to equate prissy with spineless. He’d hitched his star to Talia’s back in law school and ridden her coattails all the way up to his current spot as invaluable yes man and informant. Despite being tied too close to Talia, in the grand tradition of power breeding corruption Whittemore was the Sentinel the Council had appointed to look after Derek’s Sentinel interests against those of his pack.

 

The Council didn’t seem to care that Derek was a fully-grown man and an Alpha Sentinel who outranked them all, which meant that technically they lacked the authority to tell Derek what he could or couldn’t do. Especially when the mouthpiece for those orders was Whittemore, a Sentinel who practically ate out of Talia’s hand and had senses so low that his newly-turned Werewolf son could outdo him. The Council also liked to pretend that they’d chosen Whittemore because selecting his mother’s partner at Hale and Whittemore was supposed to be a comfort to Derek rather than a clear conflict of interest. As the Council’s representative, Whittemore was supposed to operate independently of the outside forces that pulled at a high-ranking Sentinel, not to literally be partnered up with the one loyalty that could arguably break him.

 

After all, there was a reason Werewolf Sentinels were so rare.

 

Human scientists postulated that adding the onslaught of Sentinel senses to the senses a Werewolf was already born with was enough to drive insane those few Werewolves who managed to come all the way online. Like the body wasn’t capable of incorporating heightened human senses with all that came from being a Wolf.

 

Were’s however, knew better. No, they hadn’t done any studies on the subject, but any Wolf with a splash of common sense understood that a Beta’s pull to obey the Alpha, and a Sentinel’s pull to protect his tribe were—for all they sounded compatible—not the same thing. To a human they sounded synonymous, but a human had never been put in their place by an Alpha, never been forced to do what their Alpha demanded rather than what they thought was right.

 

It was rare for the Sentinel gene to pop up in a Wolf, and when it did, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the Wolf was a little faster and a little sharper, but they stayed offline. When that rare one percent _did_ come online, it was practically a death sentence. (There’d been a Wolf Sentinel in Ethiopia who’d survived the transition a few years ago, and another in Mongolia when Peter was a child. A Sentinel in Texas had survived for a few months before his heart had given out.)

 

Derek probably wouldn’t have survived coming online if it hadn’t happened at the precise moment when his home was burning around him and the scent of his rapist was on the air. (And the whole mess was worth it, just for the Guide therapist who helped Derek get to the point where he could actually call Kate a rapist.) The imminent deaths of everyone he loved at the hands of a person he’d _thought_ he’d loved was what carried Derek through coming online, and what had made him survive the initial agony that killed so many of his fellows.

 

Put simply: Derek was special, in every sense of the word. The biggest signifier of that was that on Derek’s behalf Peter Hale was willing to sit there and listen to David Whittemore rant at him. “Let me see if I’ve got this right.” Peter forced himself not to roll his eyes at David being stupid enough to think repeating himself would somehow make Peter confess something new. “You took the Alpha Sentinel Prime of California out of his territory to get him drunk.”

 

“It was his birthday.” Peter gave Whittemore a smile that was all teeth. “It’s practically impossible to find a bar in California that’s clean enough not to overload Derek’s senses but rowdy enough that they’ll still agree to accept the liability that comes with him getting drunk.”

 

“You snuck him to Vegas!” Whittemore shouted, and Peter always enjoyed it when he broke the smug little weasel enough that he actually yelled.

 

“Considering that we brought several members of his pack, as well as the Sentinels you always assign to stalk Derek, I hardly think it qualifies as sneaking.”

 

“You failed to inform the Alpha of Nevada that you were bringing Derek into his territory!”

 

“I texted the Alpha of Vegas actually. He’s the one who recommended the bar.”

 

“He failed to inform the Sentinel Council.”

 

“Then take that up with him.” That Peter had asked the local Alpha to keep Derek’s presence to himself for the night wasn’t something that Whittemore needed to know. If anyone on earth understood the value of discretion and letting loose, it was the Alpha Sentinel of Las Vegas.

 

“Don’t pretend like it wasn’t part of your plan to have Derek go AWOL.”

 

It actually wasn’t.

 

Peter had planned on getting Derek wasted last night, with further plans to spend today at the pool, and tonight at one of the shows. (Isaac wanted to see if the magicians could actually trick Werewolves and a Sentinel, Erica wanted something pornographic, and apparently Boyd had a love for Celine Dion that none of them were willing to mock him for because Derek was the only one who could take him in a fight, and after growing up with sisters he had developed his own embarrassing fondness for the singer.) Peter had planned to at least drag Derek to Cirque du Soleil to remind him that the human body was a beautiful thing, and perhaps they should take the chance after the show to go out and get Derek laid. Sunday morning would be spent nursing hangovers and telling Derek that no, his one-night stand wasn’t going to hit the papers, before they got on the plane back to California.

 

However, Derek had the disturbing ability to fuck Peter’s plans all to hell.

 

Though technically, he supposed that this particular fuck up was actually Isaac’s fault.

 

Through a quirk of luck and coincidence Derek had been besieged by a sneezing fit halfway across the casino lobby. Erica turned to glare at the woman whose perfume had caused it, putting Isaac in position to spot an ‘old friend’ from high school. (Anyone with _eyes_ , let alone a Werewolf nose, knew exactly what direction Isaac wished that friendship had taken, and would take before the end of the night if he had his say.) Isaac bundled up his ‘friend’ with the lopsided jaw into the bar with them, and along came the friend’s companion who couldn’t stop staring at Derek.

 

To his shame, it took Peter about ten seconds to realize that Derek couldn’t stop staring at the boy either, and suddenly all Peter’s plans for the weekend changed. (Hence Peter’s current interrogation.)

 

Usually Peter had to give Derek a few days to unwind before his nephew was willing to actually let go and release some of the pent up energy that made him so difficult to be around. However, it seemed brown-eyed boys with snub noses and descriptive hands were Derek’s intoxicant of choice. Derek’s pack ran defense against the men and women who kept trying to interrupt his conversation with the boy, snapping and snarling at their fair share of interlopers because Stiles – and what in the world was a Stiles? – kept making Derek laugh.

 

It seemed Stiles was from Beacon Hills (convenient for a later date when Peter needed to get his nephew laid once again). He was a year older than Cora, three younger than Derek, and had nursed a terrible crush on him all throughout high school. (Another convenient fact: get one shot of whisky in him and Stiles couldn’t hold his tongue.) He was now the junior crime lab technician for the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, and did Derek know he had really great eyes? And his mouth was totally made for smiling, he should do that more often. And maybe kissing? Was Derek’s mouth good at kissing?

 

Peter was the sort of Wolf who would’ve had no problem taking advantage of a pretty young thing panting over him with both lust and affection. Derek however, had an unflinching morality that was the bane of Peter’s existence. When Stiles stumbled out his awkward invitation to kiss, Peter braced himself for another of Derek’s fumbling attempts to politely refuse someone’s sexual advances. But instead, Derek downed his shot of bane-laced vodka, grabbed Stiles by the hand, and hauled him out the back door.

 

Of course, when Peter told Whittemore this for the third time, he left out all the juicy, supporting details. He kept it to: Derek met a boy at the bar and wanted to get laid. What was so wrong with that?

 

“What’s wrong? Are you kidding me right now, Hale? What’s wrong is that we _can’t find them_! Derek could be poisoned with Wolfsbane, or in the hands of hunters right now and we don’t know because you let him run off with a Mundane twink he picked up at a bar!”

 

Peter was officially done with this conversation. He let himself roll to his feet with the kind of predator’s grace that Whittemore like to pretend he possessed. “One: Derek is fine. If he wasn’t his pack would be able to feel it. If anything, I’d say Derek is doing better than he has in years.” And that wasn’t an exaggeration. There’d been a blip of something angsty earlier that morning, but right now Derek was blissed out of his mind. And the feedback from that was really the only reason Peter hadn’t broken Whittemore’s nose.

 

“Two: I don’t think you’re allowed to demean people like that.” Yes, Peter had passed on Stiles’ picture and run a quick background check to make sure things were as they seemed to be last night while he and Derek were drinking. Peter hoped that Whittemore had the stupidity to call Stiles a ‘twink’ again in front of Derek. Or better yet, the Sheriff.

 

“Three: Derek is a grown man, and if he wants to spend time away from his guards, that’s his business.”

 

“Time away? You ordered them to let Derek leave!”

 

“I told my Wolves to let Derek get some action without them listening in. But I have no authority over the passel of Sentinels that you have following him everywhere. If they lost Derek, that’s on them.” Peter may or may not have done his best to distract the various Sentinels so that Derek could make his way to his suite without being followed. Though he had to admit, he hadn’t guessed that they would stay hidden so long it would lead to a morning after where the Sentinel Council was furious that Derek hadn’t just snuck off, he’d gone missing.

 

“Peter,” Whittemore scolded like he had any right to do so. “You honestly mean to tell me that an ungifted human managed to lead Derek past two Sentinel/Guide pairs without your help?” Peter really hadn’t done much more than let Derek and his boy reach the elevator unmolested. And arranged the secret room in a separate hotel that they were now occupying. And maybe had the room stocked with all the essentials for a romantic one-night stand, but that was neither here nor there. That the couple had managed to remain undetected for so long was more down to their ingenuity than to Peter’s. (And by ‘their’, Peter meant Stiles. Derek had not one sneaky bone in his body.)

 

Peter’s phone buzzed and he tamped down the urge to throw Whittemore out the window. Peter ducked out of the way as Whittemore dove for his cell, pulling up a text message from the local Alpha.

 

_Teach D that what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas. The local news says they’ll wait an hour before they run the story. Best I can do._

 

Attached to the text was a cell phone picture of a marriage certificate between one Derek Henry Hale and… what Peter was pretty sure was Genim Szczesny Stilinski. (Peter was tempted to write that name off as a drunken scribble rather than actual nouns.)

 

“What… what are you doing?” Whittemore croaked.

 

The absolute horror in Whittemore’s voice made Peter realize he was laughing. Or rather, cackling. Only Derek could spend his life surrounded by Werewolves looking for their mates and Sentinels looking for their Guides, and decide to get himself drunken married in Las Vegas to a boy who was neither a Guide nor a Werewolf. Whittemore lunged for the phone, thinking that an unhinged Peter would be easier to sneak past than a regular Peter. Instead, Peter caught Whittemore in a twist and wrapped the man in a headlock.

 

Never once had Peter regretted siding with Derek over Talia, but there were some days where his nephew made it really fucking worth it.

 

“Children!” Peter bellowed, and the three Betas stumbled in like they hadn’t been eavesdropping outside the door the entire time. “Boyd, Erica, pack up all of our things and get downstairs as fast as you can. Isaac, do the same for your little friend, and all his and Stiles’ belongings.” Whittemore passed out from the pressure Peter was putting on his carotid artery, and Peter let him smash to the ground.

 

The three little Wolves stared at Whittemore’s body, but at least Erica had the sense not to ask about that. “Are we not hiding Stiles’ identity anymore?”

 

“It’ll be a moot point in about an hour. I’d like to be off the ground before that happens.”


	9. Joanna Snow has a crush on Stannis

If Stannis were given to dramatics he would think that Robert had sent him to Winterfell to be a sacrifice to their strange gods. As it was, with every glower Stannis received from the Northmen, his guesses about whatever terrible thing Robert had done to get himself thrown out of Ned Stark's house just got worse.

Stannis knew Robert’s behavior had to have been foul to not only get Stark to lose his temper, but also that no matter how many letters Jon Arryn sent to Stark pressing for details, the man refused to answer. Lady Arryn claimed she didn't see the point in asking and that Lady Stark hadn't shared. More disturbing still, the best of Varys' little birds could find nothing but a simmering fury through the whole North and not a single fact. He theorized that the common folk didn't know what had happened, only that their Lord had thrown King Robert out on his rear and responded accordingly.

As for Robert... under normal circumstances Stannis would be overjoyed that his brother had finally learned discretion. As it was, Robert said not a damn word, not to the mistresses Varys paid to learn the truth, and not to Renly no matter how drunk he got their brother. Ser Barristan got even more pinch-lipped when the subject arose, but neither he nor the other two Kingsguard who had ridden North would offer up so much as a hint.

The entire small council had considered the eighteenth name day of Stark’s heir to be the perfect opportunity to send someone to pay their respects to the Warden of the North and perhaps determine what Robert had done and how to fix it. It had been only two years since Robert had paid his offense and already they could see the North unwinding themselves from those Kingdoms tied too closely to Robert. Riverrun and the Reach had gone unharmed, but Casterly Rock and Storm’s End had complained about reduced trade, while Dorne had seen unprecedented interaction with their Northern countrymen. Tywin Lannister had slithered into the capital and tried to tell Robert that he should punish Lord Stark for such a slight to the Queen’s family, but Robert wouldn’t hear a word of it. None of them could tell if Robert’s refusal was simple learned loyalty to Stark, or if even Robert’s considerable temper paled in shame at what he’d done. (Stannis hoped it was the former, because if Robert had done something so foul that even _he_ was ashamed for it, Stannis was riding to his death.)

As it was, the broken relationship with the North could go on no longer. The thought of sending Cersei Lannister to make nice with anyone was comical, and Renly had sworn up and down that sending the King’s unmarried baby brother to a man with daughters would be its own kind of insult given Robert’s disposition. Renly had also pointed out that he was the brother you sent when you wanted to soothe ruffled feathers, while Stannis was the brother you called when you wanted to strike a deal that every party would honor.

(Considering that even in his description of Stannis’ familial purpose Renly was bending the truth to bit a more palatable – you sent Stannis when you needed to get something done and didn’t care how bloody or difficult it would be – Stannis agreed that while he would rather not spend the time sailing North, he was the best option.)

Which was how he found himself met at the front gate of Winterfell, not by a single member of the Stark family, but by the castle’s castellan after having been glowered at by every Northman from the Neck to Stark’s solar.

Stark was half perched behind his desk, as though moments before he’d been pacing his room. This was the moment when Renly would have said something vacuous and soothing, and Stannis only extended enough courtesy to wait until the door closed behind him before he demanded, “What in the gods’ name did Robert do?”

Stark was so startled he actually settled back in his chair. “He hasn’t said?”

“Not a word. Lord Arryn and I knew it had to be something foul to make you finally break with Robert, but none of us have managed to get a word from him about it, and you’ve been just as close mouthed. Together you’ve made it impossible to figure out just how large of an apology Robert needs to make.”

Stark slouched back like the truth itself was weighing him down and he’d hoped not to say the words. “There is no apology he can offer, Lord Stannis. Robert will never again be welcome in my home. We would have lost the Greyjoy Rebellion without you, and that’s the only reason I let _you_ in. I’m tempted to never have another Baratheon darken my door again and I’m almost convinced Robb won’t allow it when he’s Lord.”

“Lord Stark, I believe I have proven time and again that I am not my brother. While in the past you have considered this a flaw, perhaps this time it might be a virtue.”

“You have never been anything less than honorable, Lord Stannis, even when I might have wished that you might be otherwise. But more importantly, I remember how you were when the Lady Shireen fell ill. Out of anyone, I imagine that you would know what a father would do for his daughters.”

Stannis steeled himself with a long breath. “Tell me quick, Lord Stark, and be done with it. Did Robert force himself on one of your girls?”

“He tried. If he’d gone after my Sansa he would’ve succeeded. But Robert chose Joanna, and since she’s been training beside Robb her entire life she saved herself from anything beyond bruises.”

“Robert wasn’t injured when he came home.” Stannis sank into the chair across from Stark.

“He was too drunk to walk a straight line when he set upon her. She hit him hard and hit him well, and that kept him from being able to do more than lift her skirts. He might’ve managed more, but Robb heard her screaming. If Robert hadn’t rolled off to tend to his balls, Robb might have become a Kingslayer. As it is, Joanna tells me that she has gone nowhere without a knife on her person ever since.”

“Was he out of his mind? Did he mistake her for a maid? What would have possessed him to touch one of your daughters?” Stannis knew that had his voice had not been dripping with disgust Stark would’ve thrown him out of his halls for such questions with much greater ease than he’d done to Robert.

“To put it plainly, Joanna is the mirror image of my Lyanna. She said that Robert kept calling her by her aunt’s name, all but sobbing out his gratitude that she had come back to him unharmed.”

Stannis tried not to be nauseous. “I imagine that’s the only reason you didn’t stab him yourself.”

“It is something that he wasn’t trying to rape my daughter, he was trying to bed his love. Not much, but enough to spare his life when all our years of friendship wouldn’t have been enough to protect him.”

“As they shouldn’t be. I can offer you no recompense for Robert’s actions.”

Were Stark a different man, this would be the moment he would reach for a drink. “I didn’t imagine you could. Recompense for the damage he _didn’t_ do to my bastard daughter? My Bannerman are breaking ties with below the Neck more because they look for any excuse to offend the South then because they feel the offense done to my child.”

Stark was too devoted a father to admit aloud that a considerable portion of those Bannerman probably thought that the bastard girl had likely climbed into the King’s bed and cried rape when she got caught. Willing or unwilling, Stannis understood all too well what must have happened to the girl’s marriage prospects since. Those Lords who might have had her to wed simply because Lord Stark loved her as much as his trueborn girls or because Robb Stark called her his twin would not forgive her the taint of Robert’s touch.

Were Stannis not painfully acquainted with the character of Stark’s honor, he would wonder if the man was lying about the condition Robb found them in. After all, why wouldn’t a bastard girl bed the King of the Seven Kingdoms in the hope that it might gain her something? The Stark children had undoubtedly heard only good things about Robert and the girl couldn’t have been prepared for Robert to be the kind of letch who bedded women and left them behind without a word of concern.

“I can do nothing binding, but if it is in my power I will see something done.”

“I confess myself surprised that you’re willing to do anything at all.”

“If Benjen had put a hand to my Shireen, I would not have have had your diplomacy.”

Stark looked surprised, Stannis hoped it was more that he was willing to speak his affection out loud then that it existed at all. “Tell Robert that if comes North he’ll get what he’ll get from my people, but he’ll find no love for him in my halls.”

“And your daughter?”

“Joanna? What about her?”

“What recompense would she like?”

“I confess, I haven’t asked.”


	10. Gibbs as Starfleet Captain

“Jethro…”

“No.” Gibbs snapped.

“Jethro, I own a vineyard that produces one of the most sought after Reds on Earth. Yet for you, I debased myself enough to buy bourbon so you’d have something to drink when you came to my home.”

Gibbs took a long pull of that bourbon, and he had to admit, it was probably the smoothest liquor he’d ever had. But the quality of the alcohol wasn’t enough to make Gibbs agreeable. “You gonna tell me why that matters?”

“Because if I went to the trouble of buying you bourbon, you can go to the trouble of listening to me when I speak.”

Gibbs took another drink and cocked his head to the side like he was actually mulling it over, then grunted, “Nope.”

“And yet, I still outrank you, which means that you’re obliged to listen to me when I speak.”

“I’m on vacation, Picard.”

“You’re on vacation at my house, drinking my alcohol.”

Gibbs actually chuckled at that one. Picard was a good Captain and a better man, and Gibbs would sorely miss knowing that the other man was out there roaming around the black. Under normal circumstances there wasn’t a thing that Picard could say that Gibbs didn’t want to hear, but Gibbs knew damn well why he was here, and though they both knew that eventually Gibbs would give in to Picard’s request, he wanted to pretend for a moment longer that he was going to say no.

Gibbs had only been captain of one vessel: his beloved USS Valor. The ship had been little more than a junker when the Admiralty had turned it over to him. His former Captain had been an unrepentant racist who considered Gibbs a half-breed abomination. The old bastard had been ready to retire for the three years before Gibbs graduated from the academy, but the admiralty couldn’t force him out without explaining how the Human had made it so far in rank without anyone catching the hatred simmering beneath his skin, hatred that had suddenly come spewing out his mouth the moment he was the highest ranking officer on his ship. They had assigned Gibbs there in the hope that he could keep the ship in the sky and stop the captain from ruining anyone’s career, while simultaneously driving the Man into retirement. Gibbs hated them for the assignment, but if there was anyone who could do it, it was Leroy Jethro Gibbs, the half-breed son of a human shop owner on the DS9 Space Station[1] and an attaché to the Vulcan Ambassador to Bajor.

And drive the bigoted old Human to retirement Gibbs had. And really, it was pathetic how little ruthless Vulcan logic it had taken. Three minutes after the Captain put in his retirement papers, Gibbs had been promoted to Captain of the Valor, and two minutes after that he’d demanded that nearly the whole command staff and a quarter of the crew be reassigned. (His demand would’ve been immediate, but computers had never really been Gibbs’ strength.)

Considering that Gibbs had just relieved them of one of the most persistent and dangerous thorns in their side, the Admiralty had been willing to bend over backwards to carry out every last one of Gibbs’ requests, but strangely enough, that had been it. The few officers who’d had the gumption to tell the Captain off were immediately promoted to the heads of their departments, while everyone who caved to the bastard’s will was given a glower or a reprimand—depending on what Ducky thought was best—and those who willingly helped him were told to get the hell of Gibbs’ ship before he keelhauled them.

(Those who’d been stupid enough to complain had the evidence of their complicity sent straight to Admiral Morrow, and every last one of them had been discharged in wake of Gibbs’ fury.)

That was the pattern Gibbs set up for the next however many years. He was ruthless and efficient, but it you could do your job properly you had a position on Gibbs’ boat for life. Very few could stand to work for the half-Vulcan for that long, but to survive Gibbs’ command without a scolding note from Ducky—since Gibbs thought reprimanding people in their file was a ridiculous way to handle things—was as good as a glowing recommendation from anyone else.

Over the years Gibbs had been offered command of almost every last ship in the fleet, the Admiralty was willing to upgrade him to everything from the miniscule science ship Pegasus, to his own city in the sky at Deep Space Five. With each new offer Gibbs was tempted with the best postings, the best crew, and finally anyone in the whole damn fleet that he wanted they’d move to wherever they wanted him to go just so the Admiralty could have a Captain of Gibbs’ record someplace other than a security ship that shuffled around the ass end of cleaning up complaints made by allied planets to the Federation. It was, for all metaphorical intents and purposes, garbage scow duty. And Gibbs wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

He stayed with his old junker of a ship, which any give day looked about one hard warp burn away from falling apart in space. The _Valor_ was a small, Nomad-class vessel, outdated and outmoded. It had originally been designed for escorting bigger starships, but the Maquis Rebellion, the Dominion War, and the subsequent rebuilding had battered the poor old thing to the point where is was good for nothing more than keeping peace on the outskirts of Federation territory. (No one in their right mind had expected Gibbs would be good at keeping the peace. He struck them all as a shoot first and ask questions later kind of fellow. But, the citizens at the rough edge of space respected his opinions, and respected that the Vulcan would tell the straight up truth and would lay down his own life to fulfill his duty in protecting them, whether that be from the Federation or from each other.)

In case there was any fool who doubted that, a few short weeks ago Gibbs had laid down his ship to protect one of those border planets from an asteroid collision. The _Valor_ didn’t have the power to drag the thing out of the way, the local planets couldn’t get everyone off in time, and despite Gibbs’ increasingly profane calls for help, no Federation ship with sufficient power could get there in time. Every one that could manage it _did_ come, all of them amping up their beaming power to clear the planet of as many people as they could, but there were too many people on the ground and too little oxygen on the ships. With every ship ferrying people as fast as they could and dropping them off outside the range, there would still be two million people left on the planet when the asteroid hit.

And for Gibbs, that wasn’t good enough.

Gibbs, sneaky bastard that he was, had dropped off the entirety of his crew at one of the planets out of the blast radius and warped straight back to the asteroid. Not one of the ships had the tractor beam power or the weapons power to destroy the asteroid before it got in range, but the destruction of the _Valor’s_ outdated warp core would be plenty. (Abby’s modifications over the years would certainly help the amount of power it would put out.)

So Gibbs had landed his ship on the asteroid, set his self-destruct, and sat down in his captain’s chair with a bottle of bourbon and no glass.

Between Ducky’s empathy and Abby’s scientific knowledge they managed to piece together what Gibbs was doing and beamed him out before he went down with his ship, bottle and all. (Through Abby’s tears she’d managed to elicit a promise from Gibbs that _next time_ he’d think about ways to survive the situation rather than ways to die in the middle of it.)

Gibbs, being himself, didn’t think there was anything particularly special about his actions, but the Federation media didn’t seem to agree with him. The second he stepped onto Earth he was hounded by reporters pleading to know what had driven him to such an idea? Why would he go down with his ship? What was he thinking in those last moments?

After the fourth paparazzo filed an assault charge against Gibbs for shattering his camera, Picard had called. He had shielding around his estate in France, and wouldn’t Gibbs like to come and feel the sun without getting pictures taken of him?

Gibbs had been on the next transport out.

Only now he was regretting that decision, because it meant Picard got to ask him about the _Enterprise_ himself rather than leaving it in the hands of Admirals he could ignore.

“She’s the flagship of the fleet, Jethro. The best and most infamous of the Federation’s captains have all led her at one time or another and you deserve to have your name on that list.”

“Some of the most inept have done it too. And you know I don’t care about the history books, Jean Luc.”

“You may not, so the rest of us will care about them for you.” Picard tilted his head back up to the sun, drinking in the earth beneath him and the light of his home planet in the sky. The man wouldn’t be able to do it for very much longer so he enjoyed it while he could, despite Gibbs’ disagreeable disposition. “I’m leaving the chair, Jethro.”

“I know that, Jean Luc. Anyone with a brain between their ears knows that.”

“And yet, you’d be surprised how many people seem to think that I’ll die in that chair. For a long time I was one of them.” Picard lifted his glass in a silent salute to what Gibbs had almost done. It was, after all, the best destiny of any Captain to go down with his ship. “But now that I know I’m going to live on without Her, I find that I’m ready for this new portion of my life to begin as soon as it can.”

Gibbs wanted to tell Picard to tell the Admiralty to go screw themselves and just hop on the next ship to Vulcan to take up his new position as Ambassador. Hell, if Gibbs’ ship wasn’t space debris Gibbs would’ve taken the man himself. But Gibbs could be cavalier because no one else would ever captain his vessel. The _Valor_ had died a good death, and she’d done it with Gibbs in the chair. Even if they kept Her name in service, Gibbs’ ship would still be beyond anyone else’s reach. But it wasn’t so for Picard’s beloved _Enterprise_. “The Admiralty can’t decide who they want in your chair?”

“As always, there are factions fighting for different captains to receive the promotion to the Federation’s flagship. As you said, some of our best have sat in that chair, and none of the Admiralty wants to be the one who championed the captain who belongs amongst the worst. I had feared that they would continue to fight about it for years to come, forcing me to sit on Earth rather than letting me move on.” Picard let the silence linger after that statement. Politeness demanded that Gibbs pick up the silence and continue the conversation, but no one had ever considered Jethro Gibbs to be polite.

“The death of the _Valor_ has opened up an unforeseen opportunity.”

“You want me to take over the _Enterprise_.”

“Not permanently. The _Enterprise_ is slated for first contact and diplomatic missions, and I think we both know those are not your forte.”

Gibbs snorted out a, “no shit,” and downed the rest of his glass. “How long are you looking for, Jean Luc?”

“A year. That should be ample time for the Admiralty to make the right decision for who should be your long-term successor. And that is all the time it should take for the new _Valor_ to be built.” Gibbs froze, the bottle halfway to his glass. “Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Picard said in that falsely light tone he got when he knew he had Gibbs by the balls over a chess match.

“Must’ve slipped your mind.”

“It must have. And yet, the Admiralty has offered up a recommissioned _Valor_ in exchange for taking on command of the _Enterprise_. According to my sources the new vessel should be done in a year, and at that time you’ll be given the choice to stay on with the _Enterprise_ or to return to your ship.”

“Bastards are hoping I’ll stay.”

“Of course they are, it greatly simplifies their decision. They’ll just rotate potential captains through as your First Officer and whichever one survives will take over for you when you decide to move on.”

“Duck is my first officer.”

Picard had not done anything so undisciplined as snort in years, but Gibbs made him want to. “Dr. Mallard is your Chief Medical Officer, Gibbs. I know he’s been running personnel interference for you for years while whatever poor sod has been temporarily assigned as your First handles the paperwork. But on a ship the size of the _Enterprise_ you’re going to actually need a First Officer.”

 

[1] DS9 is a space station located about 4 hours away from the Federation planet Bajor. The station is staffed by both members of Starfleet and members of Bajor’s planetary defense militia. It is also located beside the Bajoran Wormhole, a stable wormhole allowing travel to the Gamma Quadrant, making the station an important trading point. In the background, which may or may not get mentioned later, Gibbs Sr. was a Starfleet mechanic assigned to DS9 in the early days, and when he retired, he never left.


End file.
